


Marred Canvas

by xxystos



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-20
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-24 17:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20709542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxystos/pseuds/xxystos
Summary: Felix thinks his scars are unsightly; Sylvain has a knack for finding the beauty in things.





	Marred Canvas

From the corner of the room, a candle serenely flickers; though dull, it engulfs the area in a low light. It’s thanks to this oscillating glow that Felix is able to see clearly into the depths of Sylvain’s bister eyes, able to discern the emotion that would normally lie below layers upon layers of falsified charm.

A hand, gentle in its advances, ghosts over Felix’s forearm; he makes no move to stop his personal space from being invaded. Instead, he shifts said arm deeper into the touch, eyes never once leaving Sylvain’s. It’s intimate. It’s an adoration that he can only attain on quiet nights such as these, after class battles that leave them both sickeningly aware of the value of human life; they’re afraid, desperately so, of losing one another, and they needn’t speak to make such a fact known.

Felix knows Sylvain would take a lance to the gut for him any day, and that is possibly what scares him the most each time they are deployed. Knowing Sylvain has such a foolhardy, chivalrous nature buried beneath that cool exterior is somehow terrifying. If he were to truly hurt himself in Felix’s defense, Felix would never forgive himself. 

To think of Sylvain dying on his behalf is mortifying.

Instead of lingering in his own thoughts, Felix lifts a palm to Sylvain’s cheek, cupping lightly. When Sylvain leans deeper into the touch, Felix lets loose a shaky sigh that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “You’re an idiot,” he murmurs, voice echoing off dark walls. “You could’ve gotten hurt.”

“But I didn’t,” comes the immediate reply, accompanied by a snark grin. 

His hand snakes further up, brushing haphazardly against the sleeve of Felix’s tunic, and the latter suppresses a pleased shudder. He should be angry. He _needs_ to be angry. He needs to get the point across to Sylvain that he does _not_ appreciate him throwing his life away for his sake.

“But you could have,” Felix snaps, but his voice lacks apprehension. His hand wavers, drifting slightly until it leaves its perch beside Sylvain’s cheek. “You know I’d be pissed if you got hurt because of me.”

Sylvain, with his free hand, draws Felix’s own back to place. Lashes fluttering closed, he exhales, “Not because of you. _For_ you. Let me do things for you.”

“It’s different when you’re….” Felix’s voice drifts as he tries, to no avail, to steady the rushed patter of his heart. His own eyes close slowly, not due to fatigue, but out of comfort. Only within Sylvain’s grasp, gentle and cautious, does he ever feel this way; it feels as though he can put all of his concerns to rest and sleep. “I don’t want you risking your ass for me.”

Sylvain chuckles, breath caressing Felix’s cheeks, and Felix opens his eyes briefly. “It’s not like I’m gonna die,” he offers, smile wide and warm. He would never smile in this way were he not expressively enamored; just the thought has Felix’s lashes fluttering closed once more, and he pulls his hand forcefully away from Sylvain’s face to steady himself. “I just want to show you how much I like you.”

“And the only way you can think to do that is to risk your life?” Felix replies. He’s given up on attempting to sound aggressive. “If you really want to do something for me, do dish duty for me or something.”

Again, he opens his eyes to gauge Sylvain’s reaction; he’s contorted his face into a distasteful frown. “Aw, come on, now that you brought that up, you’re really gonna expect me to do it, aren’t you?”

Felix leans back onto Sylvain’s pillows, feeling a touch merciful, and hums in thought. “Fine, not dishes. But I’m fucking serious, stop trying to die for me or whatever you’re doing. It pisses me off.” 

Sylvain pouts slightly, obviously affected by the words, and stands. “I’m not promising I’m gonna stop, but I’ll lay off a little.” He starts to dig through his drawers, hands relatively aimless in their movements, and its apparent that he’s unsure of what to emerge with. “What should I do for you instead, then? I still wanna do _something_.”

Felix can think of an array of things he’d rather have Sylvain do, most of them involving this very bed, but he bites his tongue. This type of emotional intimacy is rare for them, and he wouldn’t want to spoil the moment. He can’t really think of anything he’d truly like for Sylvain to do for—or _to_—him. Suddenly, the prospect of Sylvain taking over dish duty on his behalf isn’t so bad after all.

His thoughts are interrupted when Sylvain triumphantly pulls a vial from his drawer, one that Felix immediately recognizes, and his face flushes. They’ve used that vial plenty of times, too many for Felix to feign ignorance. “How about this?” Sylvain asks with a wholesome smile. 

“I—” Felix bites his tongue again, shaking himself out of his stupor. If Sylvain wants to, then he has no qualms. “Okay.”

Sylvain nods brusquely, a determined look in his eyes as he climbs back onto the bed. “Roll over.”

Felix raises a brow at the sudden command but obeys, turning so that his stomach rests against Sylvain’s mattress and his nose is buried amongst his pillows. Sylvain’s scent, though now a common sensation, never fails to instill a sense of much-needed calm into Felix. “Now what?” he mumbles, words lost in down. 

“I’m gonna take off your shirt, okay? That cool?”

Felix nods, knowing his words would remain unheard in his current state, and he shivers when Sylvain reaches a cold hand beneath the hem of his tunic to remove it. His movements are slow and deliberate, as if striving to the utmost of his ability to seem seductive, and Felix clenches his fingers around the pillows to try and center his focus elsewhere. It, of course, doesn’t work.

After Sylvain carefully peels Felix’s shirt off, pausing at the top to guide Felix’s limbs and head through the proper holes, his fingers drag down to the band of his trousers. “Gonna take off your pants, too, ‘kay?” Felix nods, hurriedly, wondering why the hell Sylvain is being so…polite. 

He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy the special treatment, but going through the motions so slowly is excruciating. He tries desperately not to be visibly affected by Sylvain’s gentle touches, but his own efforts are wasted as his body defies orders; he trembles at the lazy drift of Sylvain’s fingers over his thighs as he calmly slides his pants off. 

All clothes gone save his smallclothes, Felix hides his face in anxious wait. If Sylvain is planning on ravishing him tonight, Felix would much prefer he do so quickly instead of staring for a few hours. The attention is not unwanted, not by any means, but knowing that eyes are scanning over the expanse of his bare body is never a pleasant thing. Even when those eyes are Sylvain’s; even when they bear nothing but unabashed admiration. 

Sylvain has seen Felix nude countless times, but never like this. Never in a circumstance where he could sit back and stare and take in every curve. Felix is unsure of how he might react upon seeing the facets of himself that he had always strived to hide.

“Hurry,” he groans, fingers loosening their grip around the pillows. His hand starts to amble toward his lower half, desperately seeking attention, but Sylvain’s hands caress his lower back first.

“Hey, calm down,” Sylvain chuckles, pushing Felix’s fingers away. “Tonight, I’m gonna do all the work.”

Felix rolls his eyes, aware that the gesture would remain hidden, and allows his hand to fall limp by his side. “Okay,” he mumbles, waiting blindly for Sylvain’s next move. Something about the mystery of it all excites him to the core.

What he doesn’t expect, after hearing Sylvain pop the cork from the vial, is to feel a languid dribble of oil pour onto his spine. He quivers at the sensation, both reveling in it and awaiting what would occur next, and an involuntary squeak leaves his lips. At the foreign sound, Sylvain laughs and presses both hands against Felix’s lower back. “You okay?”

Felix hums his assent, focusing more on the movement of Sylvain’s hands than on his own reactions. It doesn’t seem like he intends to delve beneath Felix’s undergarments, and his presses are firm and intentional. “Is this a massage?” Felix asks, voice husky, and his brows come together in mild frustration. It isn’t as though he wouldn’t like a massage—his muscles are definitely in need of some attention after today’s tussle—but he had been so prepared for something more. 

“Darn,” Sylvain laughs. “You guessed it. Not that it wasn’t obvious. Did the oil get you excited?”

“Yes.” Felix knows that the flush reaching his ears will give away his intentions anyway, so he opts for honesty. 

“Maybe after,” Sylvain promises, voice a mere purr beside Felix’s ear. His hands lurch upward, thumbs pressing rigid circles into Felix’s flesh. “Tell me if it hurts.”

He needn’t worry; Felix delights in the rough push against his muscles. In any other circumstance, he would have already squirmed in displeasure and thrown his clothes back on. But this is Sylvain; this is Felix’s closest friend, confidant, and significant other. His hands are welcome to migrate where they please.

As if reading his mind, Sylvain’s fingers venture higher. They pause on a rough patch, an area of fibrous tissue, and his fingernails gently trace the area. “What’s this?”

“Nothing,” Felix grumbles, internally begging Sylvain to move on. Felix dislikes his scars passionately. He has always thought of the body as a canvas depicting one’s life—his own canvas is marred and grotesque.

“No, tell me,” Sylvain insists, leaning forward. Felix can feel the ends of his hair brushing against his back; another inadvertent shiver escapes him. “I want to know.”

“It’s a scar,” he replies, hoping that answer will suffice.

It doesn’t. “Well, yeah, I know that much.” Sylvain’s fingers continue to trace, and Felix is conscious of his gaze, lingering heavy on his back. He’s grateful for the low light of the diminishing candle; his scars are better left unseen. “How’d you get it?”

“Sylvain,” Felix whines, lifting his head from the pillow. “It isn’t fucking important.”

“It’s important to me,” Sylvain replies, brows furrowed. He runs a delicate finger over the scar, as if worried it may still hurt. “You’re important to me. I want to know everything about you.”

Felix glares at him, attempting futilely to dissuade him, but his own gaze is determined. “Fine. It’s from the rebellion. The one I went with the boar to stop.” He plops his head back down. “Someone stabbed me. No big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” Sylvain counters, voice soft. His fingers continue to graze the old wound. “Did it hurt?”

“Of course it fucking hurt. There’s a scar for a reason.”

Sylvain shifts and, before long, his lips are pressed against Felix’s skin. Not open-mouthed or moist; simply a chaste peck before his thumbs continue their upward climb. “Was it an arrow?”

“Lance,” Felix corrects. “That’s why I hate you and your stupid lance.”

“Hey, we both know that’s not true.” Sylvain pauses, hands continuing to move, before he murmurs, “Is it? Is that why you never use lances?”

“No, Sylvain. It was a fucking joke.” Sylvain’s movements continue, more focused, and Felix allows another statement: “I could never hate you.”

“Oh.” Felix frowns into the pillow at the reaction, expecting something more, but his heart skips a beat when Sylvain presses another kiss into the crook of his neck. “You never say stuff like that.”

“Not unless I mean it.” He buries his face deeper into the cushions, hiding his inevitable blush, and Sylvain mercifully allows the topic to fall away. 

He continues pressing firm against Felix’s back, somehow knowing the areas that need the most attention, and he quickly erupts in a joyous hum. A song Felix has never heard fills the room. Felix is unsurprised; though he doesn’t appear to be, Sylvain is an avid fan of the arts. He must have picked up on that song at an opera, or an orchestra, or during choir practice. Or perhaps he spontaneously came up with such a tune at the sight of Felix’s backside.

“Another one,” he suddenly says, interrupting his own song. His hands had drifted down the length of Felix’s right arm and now rest on the lower half of his bicep. “This one’s…kinda cool.”

“Stop focusing on the scars,” Felix snaps, turning his head so that he can glare daggers at Sylvain. His attempt is in vain, however, as Sylvain is focused solely on the mark under his fingertips. “It’s not cool. It’s ugly. Gross.”

“How could you say that? It’s beautiful because it’s you.” Sylvain replies, sounding genuinely hurt. “Look, it looks like a little thunderbolt.”

“Because it is.”

Sylvain’s jaw drops and he gapes at Felix for a moment, eyes wide and curious. “…You got hit by lightning?”

“No, you dumbass.” Felix can’t help but smile. Sylvain could be so playfully dense at times. “If you use magic too many times in a row, it hurts. I used Thoron magic, like, six times once, and my arm almost exploded.”

“’Almost?’ Why’s there a scar, then?”

Felix purses his lips. “Okay, it _did_ explode. Kind of.” It isn’t a pleasant memory: Rodrigue’s panic, the searing pain, his own agonizing sobs as the Fraldarius healers did what they could to reconstruct his forearm. A more intense Thoron and he likely would have lost the arm entirely; he had gotten infinitely lucky. “A couple veins popped, skin ripped, whatever. It’s gross.”

Sylvain ducks to plant another kiss, this time dragging his lips along the length of the scar. “Stop calling yourself gross. I’m gonna kiss every part of you until you stop. You’re not gonna like it.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No, it’s a fact. I’ll do it in public.”

“Okay, okay, you win.” Felix allows his eyelids to droop slightly as Sylvain continues his ministrations. Felix wouldn’t mind being doused in affection in public—no, that’s a huge lie. He would rather do the dishes for a full month than deal with the idle gossip that would surround him after such an event. 

“You’re beautiful,” Sylvain mutters, breath soft against Felix’s arm. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say you’re beautiful. I wanna hear it.”

“’You’re beautiful,’” Felix complies, somewhat confused.

“No, about yourself,” Sylvain says, frustrated. “You know how much it hurts to hear you say you hate parts of yourself? A lot. Like, _a lot_. Because I love you. Every part of you. Even the parts you don’t think are attractive.”

Felix furrows his brows. It would be easy enough to do as Sylvain asked, mindlessly repeating the statement, but Sylvain is an adept judge of character; he’d sense insincerity in an instant. Toying with fate, Felix tries anyway. “I’m beautiful. Okay?”

“No,” Sylvain snaps. “Not good enough.” His nails dig gently into Felix’s skin, outlining the branching scar, but his eyes never leave Felix’s. “I know when you’re lying.”

“I’m not going to say it,” Felix blurts. “It’s embarrassing. And stupid.”

“Then I’m not gonna stop giving you the love you deserve.” He presses another kiss onto the bolt, allowing the tip of his tongue to escape his lips and trace its outline. Felix gasps lightly at the unexpected touch and Sylvain smirks from his position. “Say it for real or I’ll do this in the dining hall.”

“I’m…,” he strains, but he can’t bring himself to repeat the phrase. Not when he doesn’t believe it. The scars aren’t beauteous; even if they weren’t attached to vividly terrible memories, they’re nothing but imperfections lining his skin. He’s never liked any of them—the scar of Thoron was a marvel as a child, when anything boyish was insanely cool, but it’s now nothing but a reminder of his rashness. 

When Sylvain nips at his skin, Felix bounces up, pulling his arm away. “Did it hurt?” Sylvain queries, regret in his eyes, but his expression softens upon seeing Felix shake his head. “Sorry, but I’m serious as fuck. I want you to love yourself as much as I love you.”

It’s at times like this, when Sylvain’s adoration is so thick that it’s stifling, that Felix wishes he were nothing more than a fling. If he weren’t a serious prospect, Sylvain wouldn’t pester him so much. “I do like myself,” he mutters, holding his arm to his bare chest, but his words lack drive. “It’s not easy. It’s not like I can just decide to suddenly do this overnight.”

Sylvain parts his lips to counter but bites them back in apparent thought. “Okay,” he nods, tentatively reaching for Felix’s hand. “I’ll take it. It’s a process. We can go through it together, okay?” Felix takes his hand slowly, and Sylvain smiles as though to express his gratefulness. “I don’t want you to think I’m coming on strong—I mean, I probably am, but it’s because I fucking love you so much. It’s so new. I used to say that to every other girl but saying it now…is so different. It has so much more meaning.”

Felix pulls Sylvain’s hand to his chest, pressing the other’s palm flat against his sternum. “I,” he bites his lip and turns his gaze away, focusing elsewhere, “love you…too.”

Sylvain takes what he’s offered with a smile, using the hand pressed against Felix’s chest to push him gently against the pillows. “Good. It’d be a little weird at this point if you didn’t.” After a brief pause, “I’m gonna continue the massage, ‘kay?”

Felix allows it, this time able to watch Sylvain’s every move and expression as he lies on his back. The focus and care he musters is palpable as his palms press against Felix’s abdomen; Felix is glad he doesn’t have any scars lining this part of his body to distract him. Seeing Sylvain so attentive is rare, and Felix feels his chest swell with pride when he realizes that Sylvain is acting like this because of him. 

“You’re so soft,” he says after a moment, hands drifting to Felix’s thighs. Sensitive, he shudders at Sylvain’s advances. “You’re all muscly, but also soft. I could sleep on your thighs.”

Felix doesn’t voice his opinion, but he certainly wouldn’t mind having Sylvain rest his head on his lap for a few hours. Perhaps it’s simply his mood playing tricks on the rest of his body, but he would be willing to do a lot of things for Sylvain right now. His ecstasy nearly allows him to forget that Sylvain is approaching yet another distraction.

“And this?” Sylvain asks quietly, running his fingers over a few individual scars. The light from the candle has dimmed considerably, leaving Felix to wonder if Sylvain could make out the intent of said scars. He prays that Sylvain might be as dense as usual in this situation, but the goddess deflects his plea. “Felix, did you do this…?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, which causes Sylvain to rise from his position in order to meet his eyes. Biting his cheek, he nods slowly, gently, hoping the movement would go unseen. “Yeah,” he says suddenly, voice so resolute that he startles himself. “I did it to myself.”

It happened after Glenn died; Felix had been so consumed by grief that he could do little but toy with Glenn’s old blade. Something within urged him to hurt himself, to make himself suffer the way Glenn had in his dying moments, to live up to his brother. And he had. He had pressed the tip of the blade into his thighs, into spots that he knew Rodrigue would never check, and relished in the burn.

Sylvain stares at him for a long moment and Felix can only wonder what he might be thinking. He had left those wounds ages ago, long before he knew that pressing a sword that deep could leave scars, and he had since come to regret his actions. Is Sylvain silently judging him? Is he angry? He’d defiled himself, after all. Sylvain is so adamant about loving him; he must be disgusted that Felix would go as far as to hurt himself in his self-loathing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks quietly, eyes pained, voice genuine. “Is it something you still do?”

“No,” Felix answers, then clarifies, “I don’t do it anymore. There isn’t much to say. I did it after Glenn died. I don’t...I don’t really remember why. It was spur of the moment. It felt right, at the time.” And it was true. He had done it because feeling physical pain made the emotional ache more tangible. It’s something he could never explain to Sylvain because, although he had lost a brother too, their situations were vastly different.

“I’m sorry,” is all Sylvain answers, hands still rubbing against Felix’s thighs. “I’m….” He takes a moment to choose his words. “I’m glad you’re okay. And I’m here for you now, okay? Don’t feel like you need to hide things from me just because you think they’re ugly. Nothing about you is ugly or gross or unattractive—”

“It’s okay,” Felix interrupts, sitting up abruptly. He reaches a hand out to rest against Sylvain’s and their eyes lock. “And thank you.” Felix knows what he wants to say but is entirely unsure of how to put his thoughts into words. _Thank you for trying_ sounds much too critical. “It’s good to know you’re here.”

Sylvain, still noticeably jarred, softens at the words. Felix wishes there could be more for Sylvain to do, but these are scars—they’re mere reminders of a past long abandoned. Felix had gotten over Glenn’s death quite some time ago; the anniversary of the Tragedy is still a day that he cannot seem to get over, but his grief is nothing compared to that of when he was a child. 

“Can I kiss you?” Sylvain asks suddenly, and Felix nods briskly at the offer. He closes his eyes in preparation, parting his lips, but they are not met. Sylvain instead ducks down and presses chaste pecks against Felix’s thighs, one for each tangible scar. The candle, having wasted away, flickers out; Sylvain continues his ministrations in the darkness, stopping only when he can no longer feel the bumps of Felix’s tissue. 

When he rises, he take’s Felix gently into his arms, pressing Felix’s head into his shoulder. If he didn’t know better, Felix would assume that Sylvain was on the verge of tears. But this is an embrace tinged with relief. Sylvain seems to recognize that Felix has grown and changed and gotten over the events that scarred him so deeply. 

“I love you,” Sylvain murmurs as he pulls away, and they both fall quietly into a pile of pillows. Even through the darkness, Felix can feel Sylvain’s gaze penetrating his own. “I’m not gonna stop until you love yourself, too.”

Felix grins into the darkness, eyelids falling as weariness overtakes him. If Sylvain is willing to wait for him to grow used to his own body, then Felix will gladly oblige. “Okay,” he concedes, somewhat more comfortable with the arrangement. 

He almost feels beautiful as sleep befalls him.

**Author's Note:**

> Someone requested angst-free Sylvix fluff..........I literally cannot write anything without like 2% angst I am so sorry......thank u
> 
> Also I'm sorry everything I write is legit just Felix-worship at this point..........it's what he deserves,,
> 
> I take requests via Twitter (**@xxystos**)! I have a few backlogged already, tho, so expect delays


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